


Pillars of Hogwarts

by RionaHGoch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Female Harry Potter, Hogwarts Founders Era, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Self-Harm, Time Travel, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RionaHGoch/pseuds/RionaHGoch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was once, a woman who lived for knowledge; a man who dreamed of protecting; a man who survived for pride; a woman who wished for peace. There was once; a girl with a lightning scar who didn't know hope and was abandoned by Future.<br/>Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago by the five greatest witches and wizards of the age: Aerya<br/>Lámwyrhta, Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rowena

**Author's Note:**

> Explanations! So, a Female Harry Potter fanfic as always because I love them. Lámwyrhta means Potter in Old English, I found fitting. None of the founders will have a real surname, because nobody at the middle ages did. Their surnames came from their birth place and birthday at the Wizarding Calendar. Rowena is a muggleborn, Godric is a pureblood, Salazar is a half-blood and Helga is a pureblood. They don't have the same age, Rowena was born at 970, Godric, at 972, Salazar, at 975 and Helga, at 978. Harry/Aerya won't appear before chapter eight I assure you and probably, even before chapter ten. This is story isn't just about him, but all of them. I still haven't make a decision about the pairing besides Aerya/Salazar, what do you think? Helga/Rowena, Rowena/Godric, Helga/Godric...or they marry with others wizards and witches? I prefer the last idea, to tell the truth, as they are more supposed to be friends and family.

 

                  

 

 

> On the top of a hill in the land that once belonged to the Kingdom of Alba, there is a castle. A Castle made of light-coloured stones and with high towers. A school whose motto was _Never tickle a sleeping dragon_ and that was named after its first habitant – a warty pig. But it wasn’t always like that. There was a time when nothing but animals could be seen in that good soil and only a lake flowed in the valley. A time where a boy watched his father protect his family, when two children where nothing else than children helping their families, and when a girl swore to serve a god.
> 
> But Fate brought them a chance of being great. Some would call a blessing, some would call a curse.
> 
> This story starts when leaves fall from the trees, the season of harvest. The year is 979.

* * *

 

Rowena couldn’t understand what her problem was. She watched the kids of the servants trying to climb the highest tree in the land, an ancient oak tree. But she wouldn’t try to copy them, as she knew she would be able to reach the top, just to receive weird glances. Rowena couldn’t imitate her cousins and sword fight, as she was a girl. And her wet nurse had dismissed her from her lessons after she had finished all her tasks in twenty minutes.

She knew she was different, yes, she was sure of it. She had been since the day a breath of cold air had reached her when she had almost burnt herself. After that, Rowena started to notice that the birds always came to her. Sitting next to the place where Helen was killing a rooster, the girl that had watched nine harvests played with the wind, which danced through her fingers and didn’t exist anywhere else.

Suddenly, she felt a hand in her shoulder and her head was slammed against the ground. Black curls were the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes. Then, the red face and after that, the sword. Her cousin, Hector grinned to her.

However, it wasn’t the kind of grin you couldn’t help but return. No, it was the kind of grin that disturbed you and humiliated. Her head hurt where it had hit and Rowena scowled, feeling her wrists imprisoned in his hands, and her body restrained by his, that hadn’t left the position. The blade under her chin was cold, and the blue eyes of her cousin, vicious. The girl felt a chill down her spine.

“Scared, little freak?” Hector asked and Rowena felt the first drop of blood slid down her throat. The child shivered. Rowena was frightened. She knew that her three years older cousin wouldn't hesitate to do what soldiers did to women in war. And nobody would care enough, even if she was the daughter of Eoghan, lord of Hraefn.

She tried to call Helen, but the woman had entered in the cottage before Hector's attack. Probably, he had waited for her go away. Rowena heard a laugh beside the oak. The other children weren't there. The girl swore in her mind, she had been heedless.

“Nobody is here for you, Rowie.” Hector's brother, Jodfrey, said. Beside him, her other cousin, Bertham, laughed. But Rowena knew, she knew that behind those masks, they feared the freak. She saw it in their eyes. Maybe, if she couldn't understand she would be raped because of it, the girl would snort. Yet, she also knew that and because of it, she also feared.

Rowena wished her difference could save her. Like a raven had once done when she was to fall in a cliff. Like the wind always did in the Summer days. Like the breeze that soothed her pain. And then, she felt the weight on her body lighting. And Rowena heard surprised shouts.

Hector lay unconscious, his head leaned against the oak tree, and her relatives watched her with wary eyes as she got on her feet. Hector opened his eyes and he pointed accusingly to her. “Witch.” The words formed in his lips several times before creating a sound.

A witch. She was a witch. A devil worshipper. Anyone knew that the simple accusation was the same as a death sentence. Yet, that wasn’t just an accusation. That was the simple truth. Rowena was pure evil, born as a sin, and there was no place in heaven for her.

The guilt sentence, and then, the death punishment. Her future.

 Rowena stumbled back into her feet, her hands searching for a support she would never had. When she felt her body reaching the ground, her hands stopped her fall and she got up. Turning her back to her family, the girl ran.

Her fear of being raped was nothing compared with the realization that she would be killed, and her family surely would throw stones at her while cursing her name. Hot tears rolled down her face and her hands whipped them away wildly. Why couldn’t she be normal?

**-x-**

_Sìthiche Taigh_ , it was almost curious that the place once called _House of Fairies_ was her preferred place in the whole Hraefn Castle. The small clearing had its grounds covered by leaves in autumn, and the warm light of the afternoon brightened her sanctuary. Five crows were perched on the nearest branches of fir where her back rested; two pheasants fluttered the clearing of the entrance, and a falcon watching their strange dance.

The young witch wished to be a bird for the thousandth time in her life. A bird to admire the vastness of a world from which she only heard two or three stories in the harbour. A bird to fly the roads that the Romans had once built around the world. A bird to find out if there was any place that even the Romans hadn't known. If witchcraft allowed, she would become one. But Rowena had never heard of a witch that transformed herself in animals.

The breeze caressed her ankles and the girl transformed it in tiny tornados absently-minded. Rowena had always done it, however that was the first time she actually noticed it wasn’t common. It was really stupid of her, never thinking about that.

Her hawk, Cathasach, watched her with its hazel eyes, its claws piercing her skin. His painful grip helped Rowena to distract herself from her despair. She smiled, petting his head and freeing the bird to hunt. Cathasach send another worried glance at her before opening his wings and flying away. He would return, he always returned, Rowena could only hope that she would be still there to greet him. Probably not, what would make the hunters to kill the bird to eat.

Her first and last friend would be killed because of her. “Don’t return.” She instructed, hoping that the bird could actually understand her and that all those times she had spoken to him he had, in a certain way, understood. The crows glared at her and Rowena nodded, sending them away too.

Shoving the clay board where she had drawn her hawk into her pockets, the witch walked to the middle of the clearing, enlarging the typhoons near her boots. The whirlwinds of strawberries’ size swept the refuge, making the dry leaves fly, reaching the heavens. The place that didn’t save any spot for her. It was a beautiful view.

Rowena knew she should run away. The chances of her surviving in the forest were minimum, but the chances of her surviving there were none. The birds could help her, maybe, and she had some knowledge in hunting. As a child, it was easy to blend in any village, as an orphan peasant. The nearest village was two days' walk away and the road was far from safe, however, it wasn’t deadly.

She could leave. See the world. Save herself. Yet, she only managed to stare at the sky as the last leaves floated from the ground and disappeared in the air.

“Rowie.” A sweet voice called her and Rowena turned to see her one year older sister, Caoimhe. “Our father awaits you.”

The younger girl stared at her sister. They weren’t close as Caoimhe was with Nandag, their baby sister. But Rowena wasn’t close to any of her relatives – because deep inside herself, the girl had always knew she didn’t belong her family. But she had loved all of them.

The nickname and Caoimhe’s tone had given the witch hope, but that was a hope lost the next second, when the girl saw nothing else but disgust in her sister’s eyes. That was it. Rowena wasn’t welcome in her home. She offered her sister a sad smile. “I am not your Rowie any longer, am I?”

Her dark-haired sister’s only response was agree with her head. “Yes, maybe I never was.” The child continued before leaving the other behind, walking towards the castle.

The terrified looks Rowena received while walking to the Hall, confirmed everything the girl already knew. The whole village had already discovered everybody loathed her; everybody blamed and hated her person. And a devil worshipper couldn’t stay alive in the harvest, or the plague would bring death to all of them.

Abi and Ethne, two laundresses, shoved their hairs to their backs and spat on her. Fiona, her ancient wet nurse that had once told stories to her gestured a cross in her direction. Màirí, the baker’s wife, pushed Mysie and Calum behind her skirt, hiding her children from the evil. Lenna, a weaver that had taught her all about textures, threw a stone. Others followed the first and soon insults and stones reached her at the same speed.

Her father waited at the end of her journey, but Rowena knew what waited for her. She could almost see the priests reaching the castle. “My father.”

“You are no daughter of mine.” Eoghan, Lord from Hraefn, declared while closing the door of the Hall. Her father.

Rowena was born from a beautiful man, with dark locks and grey eyes that showed strength. Eoghan had won several battles, but was better than a soldier, than a general, Lord Eoghan Hraefn was a noble. And as a noble, he held wisdom. People said she looked like him, except the olive skin she had received from her dead mother.

If Rowena had to pick one member of her family to be her preferred, it would be her father. Now, looking at those stern eyes, the girl reconsidered that answer.  His posture didn’t waver once before saying: “And because of this, you must go.”

The witch blinked while he grasped her shoulder and directed her face up, making their eyes meet. “Go?”

“Go.” Agreed her father. “Forever. This isn’t your home anymore, yet Cecil made me promise that I’d take care of our children. You are no child of mine, so I cannot care for you.”   He released her shoulder and went away without a second glance.

Rowena turned around the Hall, saddened by the irony of letting a chance of living go and then having it returned. Saddened by the need to say goodbye. The Hall, the place of the only memory of her mother, sewing and smiling, was located. The place where some years before she would enter running and laughing with Cathasach. Where she had already played sometimes with her brothers, and had drawn her sisters two years ago. Where she knew a childish “R” was craved in the wood, from the time she had brought a dagger to the place. The Hall, where the only tapestry she had created in her life, was hung;

Her family. She would never see her family again. Her sisters would marry, her brothers, inherit her father’s position; her father, she would never know when he would die. Or she would die that night in forest. And there was no time to say goodbye. No time to ask for food, no time to see her possessions. No time to her family. Not that they would want to see her again.

She was disgusting.

And as the sun settled behind the mountains, the villagers claimed for her death. The Church wanted to judge the child blessed with the gift of magic. That child was Rowena, born in the Hraefn Castle, that discovered magic at the Clawu day.

Rowena Ravenclaw, the future would call the child who was stoned and scolded while fleeing from her place of birth, the non-magical world. 


	2. Godric

_980_

Godric turned his sword, trimming the stroke of Theon. His mentor smirked as he pushed the blades against the boy. “Pull away, little Rickie.” Godric flushed and his sword caught in fire, burning the hands of the adult, that dropped the fight.

Godric let the sword fall while the other slapped his face. “Idiot, we are at the open air, what if there was a muggle watching? This…" the man opened his arms, showing the whole castle and pointing to down the hill, where a dozen of magical families lived in cottages. “Would be dead before you could say ‘sorry'.”

The boy nodded, he didn't dare to speak when Theon was lecturing him. The older man sat on a rock, picking a wood square and craving in it with a snake knife. “Great spell work, though. What was it?”

Godric shuddered. “Don't know. Things catch fire if I want them to, and I have been doing it since always.”

“Indeed, now I remember that you didn't have your wand today, and this was too powerful to be accidental. Your grandfather's wand isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“You will have to search for your own soon, child. Mine is made from the cherry that fed my mother while she was pregnant and a Kepler, my first kill. I was twelve.” The man sighed, shoving a statue of a horse to Godric. “Bræsin can wait, child, but I''m not finished with you.”

Sending his long sword away with his feet, Godric positioned himself in a defensive pose, waiting for an attack. Resisting the urge of fighting with his right hand, the boy defended the first punch with a simple movement of his left hand. Theon was stronger, faster, and had more equilibrium than Godric, but the boy had at least one advantage as he was lighter than his teacher.

Obviously, Godric couldn't win, and the being aimed at mainly his left side didn't help. But he could learn even losing. The boy threw his right leg forward, but Theon stopped in the air, shifting the child. Pain grew in the boy's back as he recovered himself in the ground, before hitting his mentor's jaw.

Theon coughed some blood before kicking his legs, tripping him. Godric could do nothing as he saw the shadow of an elbow hitting his back.  The boy groaned and jumped into his feet, easily avoiding a punch aiming his chin. His teacher smirked as he watched his student planning a butterfly kick, yes, the boy was good.

The older man grabbed his foot in the air and pushed it down. “Faster. You need to be faster. Try again.” Godric nodded, letting his chest drop and bending his knees to create a U shape with his head and chest switching the weight on his legs, arching his back and pulling his right leg behind himself, and kicking Theon’s face in the air. The man swore, rubbing his nose.

“Better.” He approved, not waiting to the boy recompose himself before engaging a dance of fists, most of the punches hitting Godric’s arms, shoulders, face and chest. The boy defended himself, without being successful in striking his own hands in his mentor.

The younger one stopped, getting ready to carry out the movement he had created some days before.   It was very flashy, a sequence of bending his knees, swinging his arms, jumping up, tightening his muscles, rotating his hips, tucking his legs into his chest in the highest point of the jumper just to untuck them to landing with his whole feet. Godric did it perfectly, finally lowering his teacher.

“Now you are showing yourself. C’mon kiddo, show me what can you do.”

 Godric began a quick sequence of punches and kicks, only to have them trimmed by the same man he attacked. Theon laughed, throwing the last blow in Godric chest, making the boy land into his butt meters away.  

“Fuck.” The boy mumbled, getting up into his feet. Theon laughed in front of him. “Yes, I must agree that a fuck wouldn't be bad.”  Both of them grinned.

**-x-**

“You have been denounced of practicing witchcraft, a mortal sin punishable by death.” Godric watched as the bodies in the crowd moved themselves, mothers and fathers holding their children in one hand, and hurting the poor woman in the middle of the turmoil, a woman who had been born without magic, although his father had told him that her parents were a wizard and a witch.

“A squib. Her mother performed a ritual to strip her of the small magic her baby would have, fearing that the child wouldn’t be safe. But the witch taught her daughter about herbs, and this was her mistake.” The woman screamed as the stones scarred her skin and men bounded her in a stake. Eadmund, Lord of Griffins, held his son shoulder, both of them hidden in the bottom of the crowd, quietly.

“Children like you are everyday killed by muggles, my son, because of accidental magic. When my ancestors built our castle with the help of Griffins, they didn’t know what the future held for them. My father and the father of my father have sought to strengthen the wards around Griffin and this attempt has been carried on by me. Someday, I’ll no longer be here, and this task, my son, will be yours. You must not fail; our whole house depends of it.”

 Godric nodded, grimly. A bearded man dropped a burning torch at the stake, and slowly, the fire started to fire the wood, plunging into it like a Sea Serpent dove in the water. The humble dress the squib wore was destroyed by the flames, and the sound of the wood cracking was muffled by her screams that told a story of terror and pain.

Suddenly, the woman fixed her eyes in a man in the crowd, and began to call his name. His name was Loran, and by the pleads and “my love”, Godric supposed he was her lover. Maybe her husband? The man’s spat washed her face for a second, before the same man lightened another torch and launched it at her bust, still intact by the flames.

Well, no more.

The roars of approval spread through the crowd, repeated by dozens and dozens of people.  Godric shivered as the demands of “Death for the witches!” were created by the mouths. He tried to stop the fire that took the life of the woman with much more pain that any of them deserved, even the lover.  The flames opened at her chest, revealing her tortured face, twisted in a mask of pure pain.

She looked to her womb for a moment and Godric closed his eyes as his magic noticed the presence of another being. A small, undeveloped being that could have been a person if it wasn’t already dying in her body.  He looked to the man, he knew. Of course he knew, the child could have been born if one or two months more had passed. But he didn’t regret killing his seed, oh, he loathed the child.

Eadmund gave him a disapproving look, twisting the lobe of his ear and stopping his magic with a stern expression. Godric gasped as he saw the fire engulfing the woman once again. The boy supported himself in his father’s leg, unable to remain in his feet after the tiresome and useless effort. His father expression softened a bit, but he didn’t allow the boy to continue with his attempts. Godric opened his mouth to scream as a flame entered in her mouth while she screamed, but his father hand covered his small lips.

Touching his son’s arms lightly, Eadmund pushed the child through the people, rubbing his skin softly to calm his firstborn and guiding him to their horses. It was quiet journey. While at the turmoil they could talk as much as they wished, far from a witch burning and the shouts even a whisper was interesting and just an ear was needed to reveal a whole community hidden beneath the noses of the non-magical. Just when they arrived at the middle of the forest they would be able to apparate, and not before it.

Godric watched his father figure as they galloped in the meadows, the boy in a chestnut stallion and the father in a black mare.  Both of them shared the long face – that could be seen in Godric even with all the childish fat that all children had – and the gray almond eyes. His father’s hair was short and muddy, different from the crimson and long he had as hair. But he respected that man so much, oh, Godric knew his father was brave, fair and courageous. The boy only didn’t understand why the others couldn’t see it. Why did muggles thought magic was bad as it allowed comfort to all of them?

**-x-**

“It’s because of this, my son, that we cannot afford to do magic in the open air. Theon told me that although you can control your magic, you don’t really know how to do it. This, my son, isn’t acceptable.  Today, you did magic again. For honorable reasons, yes, but you cannot relay in magic. You must learn to control your power over fire. And even if you can control, as you did today in the stake, you cannot risk yourself. You did magic in front of a crowd of prejudiced muggles. You are reckless, my son, and this cannot be allowed. We live in a time of darkness and punishment. And a child controlling fire will be killed without any mercy.”

His father sighed, taking a sip of his beer before putting it on the stand. They were at the Griffin Castle, and after that talk was finished, Godric knew his mother would arrive with his two younger siblings.  

“You are a child born in the day of D’Or. A child with the fate marked by Gold. You are destined to Prosperity, Envy and Glory. You must be brave, my heir, because lives depend on you. The lives of your family will, someday, be lives of yourself.”

Godric watched as his father rubbed his hands with a ruby as big as a thumb. The ruby was a family heirloom and unbreakable. So, while most people would hesitate about pressing the jewel with such strength, the boy understood that there was no risk on doing it. Finally, his father dropped it on Godric’s hand.

The boy held the stone against the light, watching the scarlet shine through the room, in an amazing scenery. The stone was beautiful, with the color of blood and no imperfection on its surface, or dirt in its insides. It was almost like the utopia of humanity.  

“We are defenseless. Nothing can protect us from them, even our magic. The slight control we had once had over it was lost in generations of ancestors. The fine art of apparate and creating wards have been passed through our family for years, but the abilities like communicating with other beings, mind arts, and battle magic are long lost. Actually, I cannot say which are those that had already existed and the ones that are just tales. We have nothing, my child, and this will be our downfall.”

“We are destined to suffer, my son. We are a race brought to the brink of extinction.”


	3. Salazar

_984_

Salazar watched as his mother impaled herself, her knees supported by the couch. The man whose piece of manhood was inside his mother body was a pile of fat, which made the bony body of his mother much more evident.  It was disgusting, but Salazar could really say who – his mother, the whore, sold herself to food, which made everything pathetic, the poor attempt of living a life that was just agony; the man had to pay for someone to make sex with him and he was much more pathetic, shouting and moaning as if that was the heaven. Salazar snorted; surely, being impaled by a corpse wasn’t the heaven.

Actually, the man was the real disgusting one, Salazar concluded.

He didn’t love his mother, but he understood her. He had banned the thought of loving her, as he knew he had ruined her life and one of them would die in one year or two.  He understood that she had been too prideful to kill him in a desperate attempt of living, and had too much pride to just die, to just admit defeat to life. It was foolish of her, but admirable.  So, he couldn’t bring himself to be bothered by all those sweat. Because it would be disrespectful to dishonor his mother pride, and he liked her enough to not disrespect – well, at least, he owned her for not killing her baby after his father had left.

When they had arrived at Hoff, Salazar was four. He had some memories of wide rivers, green forest and soothing breezes; fertile fields that weren't so common in the coastal village. But, certainly, he had none of his father. His mother had told him he had left her the same day he was born, after trying to kill his son and his lover. His father was disgusted by the idea of magic, his mother had explained.

Salazar pulled the board, closing the hole through which he peered.  Turning around he made a face to the small girl who gave him a happy and innocent smile. With those dark blonde curls and honey eyes, the child was surprisingly annoying. “Is Aunt Dreda in pain? I can help.” She offered, taking out the wand of her grandaunt, which Salazar quickly hid in her dress.

“No, silly. She has just accomplished a really difficult spell. But don’t take your wand here, your parents already warned you.”  The six-year girl froze under his hard gaze, bowing her head. “Sorry.”

“Yes, you are right to be. Now come, I’ve to bring you to your parents and then go to work.” Taking the hand of the little girl, Salazar came out of the alley. Salazar swore to himself, Hoff Village was one of the most restless villages in Wales and it wasn’t safe to let a magical child alone, her parents should have known.

“But I want to go with you!” The girl whined. Oh, maybe her parents did know about the risks, but she had escaped from them, it wouldn’t be a surprise, with all those siblings she had, if her mother lost the track of one. And being her wasn’t a surprise; she was like a real pixie sometimes. The girl was strangely attached to Salazar. It was as if she knew that if she didn’t befriend him, he would have no friends.

Salazar wouldn’t be surprised if she knew. The girl was annoying, sure, but she was also quite perceptive to one’s emotions. And kindhearted. He didn’t like pity, but he also knew she didn’t feel pity for him.

“No, Helga. You are six, you must stay at home. Go help your mother attending your brothers, but I have to work. And don’t do magic.”

The wizard grabbed her wrist, pulling her through the market  until she dug her feet onto the ground, with a pout. “I want to help you! Mum has Sasha and Edith to help her, you have no one.” Impatient, Salazar brought the girl to his shoulders, carrying her again while she struggled.

“You will tire me, Helga, if you continue to struggle and then I won’t have any force to finish my work. You won’t be helping.” Finally, the girl shut up and began to hum a pretty melody that Salazar had never heard, not that he had heard many.

The song was peaceful, a bit too light to the boy’s tastes, but refreshing. He knew that her mother must have sung it to her before and felt a little jealous of the girl, as his own mother only changed a dozen of words with him and none of them were a little harmonic. But it didn’t last, the girl was simply too innocent to have any ill-thought against her.

The streets of Hoff were narrow and dirty, a terrible smell of putrefy and lees mixed with salt spray made everything the image of Hell and at summer, the hotness of the Sun was added. But the two of them had their bubble of safety, the bright smile that Helga showed to everyone and the affection he held only for her. Brother and sister segregated by blood, but connected by heart. Connected by magic;

Messing with her hair, the boy kneeled in front of the girl, smiling softly. “I don’t need help to do my work, prat, but if I needed, you would be the first I’d go to.” He humored her before shoving her into her house.

**-x-**

Salazar worked at the docks. It was a rough work and one of the most deadly you could have, with all those diseases the ocean brought; but he was a wizard, and wizard were immune to muggles diseases most of time. Besides, the water was his reign and he loved the power he had over it, and working in the docks avoided most of the suspicious glances he could have received when he appeared drenched.

And if some drops of water were floating slightly above the sea, who cared?

 And if a wave went against the wind, again, who cared?

Nobody but the one who did it, certainly.

Obviously, the work wasn’t all perfect. The children of the fishermen didn’t like very much, but loved to taunt him about his mother job. And the fact he wasn’t from Hoff didn’t help.

That was one of those days when they decided it was time to taunt him again. Salazar had already reached his knife when Roran, Horos, Ned, Johann and Pete had surrounded him. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that not reacting would make them bolder, and that using magic would bring death to him, so Salazar had learned to use knives. He was very fast and had good-reflexes, so it wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was to swing the knife to touch one of their throats, the others would stop and them he would make them leave for good.

Salazar followed all those steps easily, but he didn’t count with the stupidity of the rest of the group. So, while his blade restrained Horos, Roran decided that Salazar didn’t have what he needed to kill his cousin and attacked.

Soon, Salazar found himself looking to a stabbed leg, where he had cut Roran. His hands were dripping blood but his knife was again in his pockets. He had to run, as the others were ready to get their revenge and while Salazar was fast, he wasn’t strong as were Pete and Ned. And he ran.

 The village became blurry as the wizard ran, restraining himself of just soaking the others with a wave and, maybe, drowning them in the sea. He stroke men and women down, shouting apologies and receiving insults and swearing in response. He knocked out countertops and products in the market and ran into fish buckets twice.

And then, everything was over. In front of his mother and Salazar’s tiny hut there was a woman. A naked woman. Her crumbly brunette hair dirtied by blood and sweat, and her bones too visible. From her neck, two long trails of blood started to dry, but the body was very much dead, the gray eyes of the corpse staring at him. Elisabeth from Alsea. His mother.

Salazar felt one warm tear running through his face before kneeling beside her, feeling her pulse. Dead. Surely dead. His mother was dead. The one who had mercy on him, the one who had sold herself for him. And he couldn’t think anything else than that while he hid in his pockets her wand.

And then, he saw it. A medium adder, sliding through her body. He didn’t know exactly how he did know it was a snake, much less an adder, as he had never saw neither of them, but he knew. It would attack, he could see it, retreating in a hunter pose, getting ready to pounce. He could hear the steps of the other kids coming close.

/Help me!/ He shouted.

The snake attacked.

He turned to see Johann pressed against the wall, the adder with its fangs into his flesh. And then, it retreated, sliding next to Salazar, who stood there, frozen. And he was surrounded by eyes, reproving eyes.

/As you wish, speaker./ it hissed, wrapping itself around his waist. The boy took a breath. It had spoken.

The snake had spoken. And he could see that only he understood.

He had done magic. In front of a dozen of people.

Salazar, born in Slidrian Cave at the wizarding day of Innan, had killed someone. Also in front of the same dozen of people.

“Devil! Devil’s whore!”


	4. Helga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is the last chapter of the prologue. Now I'm going to start something like four chapters about the next eight years and what happened. These chapters will be longer than what I've written until now in this story. You can be thinking that the story is a bit rushed but this story is not just about the founders alone, but about them together and this is the main focus. After all, I'm dying here to write about Harry (Aerya).

_984_

Helga had known Salazar since she could remember. Different from her, he had just one magic parent, Aunt Dreda. Helga knew that He had no friends, so she had decided long ago to be his friend. She loved how hard-working and gentle her foster-brother was.

The first memory she had of him was the figure of a black haired boy in too large clothes curled behind a cart, hearing the baker's wife gossiping with the butcher's wife about the mother and son pair that lived in the tiniest hut. Since before it, the witch had a daily routine, she would help her mother with the herbs, reviving them; heal some animals she found with her youngest sister and brother and then go visit her foster-brother.

She loved her family. Gwyneth, her younger sister that would always be fascinated when Helga blossom a flower; Bethan, her older sister that thought Helga was a brat, and too interested in Afon, the son of a woodworker. They would marry soon, Helga had encouraged just some minutes before, to the other girl’s delight.

She adored her young brother, Huw, with his small hands and fatty legs, as most of the babies had. Ifan, her older brother, was too cruel with the animals, so she wasn’t pleased with her brother, but still, she loved him.

She didn’t have many memories with Sasha and Bedwyr, as they were almost leaving their homes when she was born. But she remembered them taking care of her, watching her, teaching her to speak, to walk, to heal. All her family had taught her and Helga was grateful for that, grateful for that warming house she was blessed with. She loved Edith, Bedwyr’s wife, as she loved her own sisters – and she adored their children.

Her young mother, whose cheeks were always shinning and whose hair always hung from a loose bun. Her mommy, Rhiannon, whose apron was always dirtied by flour; her mother, whose chest was warm and whose lap was welcoming. 

Her father, named Owain, a man who worked hard to provide for his family and always arrived tired from work, but played with them even then. A man who dedicated himself to being tolerant and kind. She felt that those were the characteristics helpful to true wizards.

 “We are all bones, Helga.” Her father had said. “So we are all equals.”

 Life was pretty and easy to the pureblood, even for a poor pureblood.

Salazar had left her in her home before his work, and she was taking care of her siblings while her mother baked something, with spelled needles working by themselves sewing shirts.

Then, the shouts had begun and soon she was staring at two corpses, shocked. And her foster-brother stood there, pale as a ghost while rocks slashed his skin, blood drying in his clothes while a snake curled in his feet.

He was talking in a hushed voice to the reptile. Eying the animal carefully, Helga could see it was holding itself, and in a more attentive inspection, the witch comprehended that Salazar was talking a foreign idiom.

A Snake's Language. He was doing magic. In front of all those people.

The realization hit Helga quickly; the villagers knew they were magical.

Since the day she was born, the girl had heard The Rules. You didn't show your magic. You didn't talk about magic. You couldn't sell or give potions and herbs to muggles. You didn't show your wand or staff to muggles.

And if you committed the deadly mistake of doing any of them, you fled. Flee before being accused of witchcraft.

Helga watched the aftermaths of the Hell Burning, her eyes widening as a girl was shoved in the ground by the crowd.

Unconsciously, the young witch kneeled beside the muggle, healing her bruise quickly and attracting the eyes of the whole village.  And then, she was being dragged by her arm, her foster-brother's hand in a tight grip.

Their feet slammed into the soil on the streets, pushing and diverting bodies in rhythm. Her legs followed his lead, but the child had her eyes closed, refusing to see the accusatory stares she received. Her mind was still on the girl who had been hurt, asking herself if she had healed properly. A tiny section of her brain congratulating herself for her first human healing outside her family.

Her mind returned to Salazar's house, finally grasping the whole meaning. Well, if you considered fifteen minutes finally.

Auntie was dead. She didn't use to see aunt Dreda a lot, Sal always said his mother was busy working when she asked, however Helga liked her. She always brushed the child's hair, even if her hand were shivering. Auntie loved her massages and always complimented Helga. Auntie was very beautiful, even in her destroyed state, as Salazar described.

Tears flooded her face while the realization they had to go reached her.

Everything had happened too fast. Salazar was restraining adder with words; everyone approached him to despise the boy. A girl slightly older than Helga with blonde frizzy hair that tried to peek between the legs had been kicked to the ground.

At that moment, Helga hadn't thought anything. Everyone knew about magic, so why don't use it? Then, when she realized, she was already doing magic in front of a hundred of non-magicals.

Salazar had noticed it and gave an order to the snake, which attacked the Butcher Enro. While the reptile sacrificed itself, the two young magicals ran.

They ran to Helga's house.

The home of her family was pretty big, but that was expected of a pureblood family, even a poor one. The wood building had one floor and three rooms, one to her parents and her younger siblings, one to her and her older ones, and a common room to all of them. It was simple, but their. The scars the house had proved it, the signs of three generations of wizards living there could be seen in the walls, the marks of ancient explosions of accidental magic. The herbs her mother grew on secret from the whole village locked in the cupboard. The ancient oak table at the common room, scratched by knives in the hands of children.

Helga heard the slamming door behind her, as Salazar lead them to inside the house. Her mother was making an herbal paste while Bethan held Huw, singing a lullaby to the child. Gwyneth watched the scene with interested eyes that moved to the two of them when they arrived. Ifan watched the village with crazy eyes.

“What happened?” Her mother asked, noticing the sweat in her daughter body and the wide eyes of the wizard boy who lived with that witch whore.

“They know.” Ifan answered, turning to stare at them. “They know about magic. About us...” His eyes blamed Salazar. “What did you do, bastard?!”

“There was a-a s-snake. I'm a speaker. I j-just...I couldn't th-think anything, i-it was going to a-attack.” Salazar stuttered, taking a deep breath. “They were coming, I asked for their help, but I said in the language. The snake helped me, instead. I'm sorry.”

"You are sorry?” Her older brother shouted, enraged. “You condemned us all! You idiot!” Ifan grabbed Salazar by his collar, slamming the younger boy's back into wall. “I said to father that you were trouble! I said to him to forbid Helga of visiting you. I was right! I was bloody right about the whore's son! We are dead and it's your fucking fault!”

“I didn't mean it, okay? I'm sorry, I know it's my fault, but I didn't mean it! It doesn't matter, though. We have to go if we want to stay bloody alive!”

“Are you delusional?” Bethan questioned, setting her baby brother in her mother's arms, her face marked by the tears that ran through her cheeks. “It's impossible! We won't get away! We are already dead!”

“Well,” started Salazar, with his feet still in the air, his whole body supported by the strong arm of Helga's brother. “I'll try, I assure you. And I promise to take Helga with me!” Salazar's face turned more and redder as he spoke, but the young witch didn't care. She panicking but at the end of her mind a tiny wave of relief soothed the fire in her head, as the conviction of being with her foster brother hit her. She wouldn't be abandoned. Helga had someone to be solely attached to.

Her sister Gwyneth broke in an alarmed cry, wanking herself up her sister, her light brown bangs covering her face as she sought comfort in her two years older sister. Helga held the child, looking in her mother's arms.

“Daddy?” She asked. Her mother held her breath, denying with her head the knowledge where he was.

“He went to work in the building of a new house, but I'm not sure where he is. Maybe he ran away, or then, he was prisoned. Sincerely, I prefer the last one, at least he is alive.”

Owain, Helga’s father, closed the door behind himself as soon as Rhiannon finished talking. “Dad-da!” Huw gurgled happily, oblivious to the whole situation. Owain, a well-built man with a beauty that was a rougher version of his wife, flashed a sad smile to his children before bending down to kiss Rhiannon.

“Where are Sasha, Edith and Bedwyr?” Rhiannon asked, settling her auburn hair behind her ears with a tearful and worried gaze, her body almost shaking with the perspective of not having one of her children with her. One of her babies, Helga knew her mother thought, worth more than her whole life.

Helga watched while her father squeezed her mother’s hand, conveying the whole message beneath that touch. The girl watched while her mother’s mouth hung loose for a moment before screaming a pitiful cry, the unshed tears she had been holding running away from her eyes, as if those beautiful globes where hell.

She watched as her mother’s shoulders copied her father’s, in a frenetic dance of sadness, mourning, regret, memories, despair, rage, pain, gloom, sorrow, misery, agony, dread and misery. Broken. Helga could catch those emotions; she could feel the helplessness of being in the greatest fall of your life, feeling your whole world crumbling.  Feeling memories shattering. But the little child couldn’t understand the reason.

At six, Helga could only say that there was sadness. Just simple, miserable, fucking sadness. And this sadness was the worst disease you could see, you could feel. The girl could only watch as her older siblings realized what was happening. And she could only hope, even when hope was just a memory, a shattering memory.

She could not heal hearts. Because of this, dead hearts were everywhere.

Ifan, her enraged brother, letting Salazar go, kneeling in the floor, his back shaking with broken sobs. She could feel his impotence. She could feel his rage, but she could also feel his sorrow. A whole, deep, sorrow, while he searched for his baby siblings, his Huw, his Gwyneth, his Helga. Helga felt the emotions her brother held for her, and she gave him a small smile, remembering the tale he had told the whole family many times about the afternoon when he noticed his mother in labor with her, the tale about how he had helped his mother deliver his little sister, as children of witches couldn’t be delivered by midwives and their father was too far away to be reached.  

Bethan touched her brother’s arms, wrapping him around her small figure, whispering a tale to the one who had taught her how to tie her shoes. Comforting her playmate with whom she had so many memories.  Helga felt her wish to have a life, to have children, to name her children after their parents, to be the wife of Afon. Helga felt when her eyes flickered to her and both her brother and her sister caressed their younger sister’s cheeks. Helga leaned her face on their hands, on their arms, closing her eyes.

She felt Gwyneth curling against her body, her tiny hands reaching her family while her older brothers leaned on the leg of the chair where their mother sat. Rhiannon reached her older children’s hair, petting both Bethan and Ifan while her left arm nestled her new baby, Huw. Owian sat behind Helga and Gwyneth, his arms hugging his two younger daughters.

Helga snuggled in her father’s embrace, opening her eyes to watch over Bethan’s shoulder as Salazar leaned on the wall, his expression was a lugubrious, wan and hunted. He had lost all his family already. He was alone, completely alone. But he held her gaze, finally reaching from her hand and caressing it gently.

And it was in that position that they smelled the first scents of burning wood. Their throats drying at the same moment while the smoke choked their breaths.

The last memory Helga had from her family was the sounds of her mother screaming pleads of mercy, while Salazar grabbed her by her arm and her hand wrapped itself in Gwyneth.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the Prologue.
> 
> Bookmarks, kudos and comments are always welcomed.


	5. Till the Edge of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena goes to the end of her world in her search for knowledge. This chapter isn't that excting but it gives us a great view of the character (a think, at least). The next chapter about Rowie will be chapter seven, and chapter six is about Helga and Sally. Almost sure the eight will be about Godric, and than return to Helga and Sally in nine. Probably chapter ten will have all of them together. Maybe Aerya will appear in eleven. This is the plan, at least. I don't have a beta sweeties and Harry Potter isn't mine (no, don't say it!);

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was offended religiously this story, I swear it was never my intention. I have friends and relatives of different religions and respect this. By the way, if anyone knows more about Jewish customs and Christians in the tenth century some aid would be welcomed.

 

 

 

> _"And starward drifts the stricken world,_  
>  _Lone in unalterable gloom_  
>  _Dead, with a universe for tomb,_  
>  _Dark, and to vaster darkness whirled."_
> 
> _\- George Sterling_

_985_

Roi ben Rapp followed the hawk he had trained since its birth. Charna was a proud bird and when it landed, his claws pierced his skin. Roi created a strange view in the middle of Sahara with those cotton robes. At the age of fifteen, he didn't have a beard, as most of the Hebrews did and neither had the usual features of his people.

But even as a British Jew, he spoke the language fluently, and had a great knowledge in their costumes. As any other scholar, he could recite the five books of the Torah without reading, interpret the whole Ketuvim and have a long debate about the Nevi'im.

Nobody could have guessed he was a girl, a witch. Nobody knew her name was Rowena, even when in London, from where she had departed more than an year before.

The little girl she had once been was lost between bandages in her breasts, a language she had been obligated to learn, and countless hours riding on a horse in fields full of blood, hunger, disease and poverty.

She had seen the world; she had seen the scene of rape that tormented her dreams becoming reality behind her, as wars forged victims, widows and orphans. She had slept while mothers' cries echoed in the air with their children in their arms and despair in their voices. And she had turned around because she had to continue, even during the night, because she could not afford being vulnerable there.

She had turned a blind eye malnourished children, she had walked away as starvation destroyed flesh, families and lives. She had ran in the Roman Roads as she avoided the plagues that followed her close, and she had arrived in places where pus invaded eyes, noses and mouths and the stinky scent of rotting emanate from bodies.

It had scared her.  It terrified her so much, as the pleads of mercy resonated through the air, reaching her ears sharper than the natural. She could only pray that she didn’t have to mouth such things soon, that her poor and abecedarian magic prevented the soldiers of finding the small boy she disguised herself as.

And while the misery awakened her fear, the world never ceased to amaze her. The world she had dreamt about for so long was so colorful, so elaborated, so curious, and so different. At the kingdom of the Franks, she had met her first equal.

Merina, an old witch, had told her about the East. About those who held the greatest knowledge in magic; about the legends. The legends about a library that held archives from even before the Romans. Even before Christ. Only tales, fairytales about amazing creatures, hidden secrets, forgotten books, miraculous cures, extinct languages, dusted paintings of dead people, long buried cultures. Merina had told her about the stories that ran in the wizarding circles nobody could look for, only stumble into. About a race that had monolid eyes and the most ancient knowledge of magic. 

In the French that she had been obligated by fate to learn, Rowena had been fed with myths, rumors and wishes, and sorted they into knowledge with the best she could.

She had navigated through the Bosporus Strait; she had seen the ships with those dragons’ heads of the Rus’. She had talked with Goths when she couldn’t understand any word of the language of those men with powerful-built.

Rowena had entered inside Hagia Sophia, she had stared at its mosaics and prayed to a god that couldn’t listen to that sinner. She had reached the magnificent Damascus, under the reign of al-Aziz and the Fatimids, which experienced a deserved period of stability, yet, with awful living conditions. She had seen the bluest sky she could ever see, and she had remembered, the faces, the languages, the foods, the accents, the clothing.

She had been inside the Dome of Rock, in Jerusalem, she had seen the Foundation Stone. She had been fascinated by its octagonal structure, and be hypnotized by the wooden dome. She hadn’t dare to pray at the Western Wall, however, as a lie lived for years was still a lie. She had only stood there, watching as thousands of people followed their beliefs, beliefs she had learnt to abandon after failing to accept her powers with them. A sinner. She knew she was. But she believed in knowledge, and she knew what she travelled for.

And it was because of this that Roi ben Rapp had finally reached the Egypt. Two days before, Rowena was informed that the city she looked for was near the sea the Romans used to call Mare Nostrum. What have made the last nine months of her travel useless, as she could have travelled by the sea, but she didn’t regret any of them, even when fear had been a plague to her. Because it was one those months that she had acquired more and more knowledge about everything. And knowledge was the road to survival, she had learned long ago.

People said that the library was destroyed and burnt long ago. But people didn’t know about the existence of magic, and if the library had truly held knowledge about magic, Rowena was willing to bet that it couldn’t have been destroyed  by fire. Not fire.

Merina had once said that Rowena had a childish fascination with magic. That she would be destroyed by the belief that magic would save her. Merina had warned her that magic wasn’t a religion, and that Rowena couldn’t rely in it to save her world. Rowena had agreed with her, she was truly so infatuated with magic that she adored it. The girl had called her ingénue with such veneration, however, that was also the same girl who arrogantly argued that genii were born ingénue, and they still became great and renowned.

Rowena knew she was a hypocrite. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Everyone had one’s faults and knowing them was sufficient to control it. Those were the words she had repeated so many times in her head, the conviction of their veracity always present.

Besides, the last words of Merina had been: _Follow Minerva._ Catching the reference to the Ancient Roman Goddess of Wisdom, she had departed from France the week after her death.

She knew travelling alone through the Orient was a suicidal option. Yet, she also knew she could never risk travelling in caravan. Magic, after all, was destined to be discovered by those who accompanied you every whole day. And while travelling alone was a suicide, doing magic in front of strangers was a death sentence and while suicides could fail, death sentence always ended up with a corpse. No, the time she had left London, she knew she was going to be alone, probably her whole life. When she met Merina, she had expected a company in her life for a while, until the woman died, at least, but she had died earlier than Rowena had first expected and with this the perspective of being a lone wolf returned.

Wasn’t Fate such a great tease?

While being alone was a great disadvantage sometimes, Rowena had soon worked out some spells and it became a bit easier. She remembered the time when she had thought magic was just her power over the air. The time when she had a home to belong to. Her power over the air was, still, her greatest advantage in those travels, as the rest of her knowledge about magic was precarious. With air, though, she had the closest relationship one could have. She knew it internally, as a lover recognized the embrace of his lady or a mother knew her child.

The sandstorms proved to be the greatest chance to her test her abilities of controlling her child, and after a week of travelling on the sand, the same sand that killed many in those storms, her control over it was perfect. The sand would float and dance around her body, without touching one inch of her skin or the skin of her camel and the feathers of Charna. While most travelers would need to worry about losing their lives, she giggled as the wind created the most beautiful sand images around her, like a moving painting in sepia. She was still working on doing the same while unconscious, as during the sandstorms she would have to stay awake to hold her will of slowing the wind around her.

Until now, she had only managed to be woken up by her own choking gasps as her magic stopped any air of reaching her body.

Forget about the perfect control, there were still some failures. Well, the price of learning magic.

Putting her camel to run, she held the reins steadily. If she wanted to reach Alexandria, she would do it until the next morning.

**-x-**

Alexandria was a tireless city, Roi soon discovered. After she was welcomed into the walls of the citadel, the girl-disguised-as-boy had gone to the market to sell her camel. The logic was simple: she didn't have time or money to provide for something that would be almost useless in the city and she hoped that she could depart from there to the sea.

And with the money, she bought a dark stallion she named Blasius. The horses of the Orient were different from those of Occident, they were smaller, stronger, with refined heads, and she couldn't help but to find those high tail carriages funny.

Roi knew that it would be easy to find the library. When in France, it had been easy to guess that when she reached the city, everything would be waiting for her; however, while she travelled, she had dropped that pretension and agreed that she had been a little too hasty to travel.

But she hadn't expected anybody knowing its former location.

And nobody knew. An old man in the market had told her that an earthquake two centuries before had destroyed half of the city and if she was looking for a building only stories talked about, it must have been destroyed in it. A pregnant woman had confirmed the story, as had a physician. They said it was useless, but still, she hadn't gone there to waste her chance.

The day had been resumed in half a hundred people denying the existence of the library - some said that while it had existed, it was destroyed; some that it had never existed; and there were those who had never heard about it, even if it was supposed to be located in their cities. While most people would be frustrated by it, Rowena became more and more excited. She would find it, and she would be the first.

She drove Blasius to the Jewish houses. If there was something that Rowena had discovered, was that the people she disguised herself to be were very welcoming with its peers. And that they were everywhere.

It was the end of the day, and soon they would be eating so if she wanted some food, she would have to ask at the moment. Reaching a humble but well-built hut, she waited to a brunette woman open the door, a small boy hugging her legs.

“Good evening, my name is Roi ben Rapp, son of David, from England. I'm travelling to discover the Great Library rumored to be hidden in this city. If you could provide me a plate of food, I could help you with the household, madam. I know how to fight, to sew, to cook, to chop, to wash. And I have some money, too.”

“Oh, dear, a son of The Lord is always welcome in this house. Come, enter, no payment is requested. My name is Ismira, daughter of Leah, and this is my son Lior, son of Eiran.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“You can sleep in the stables, if you wish. The meal is almost done, you are welcomed to join us in our supper.”

Roi smiled and thanked the woman, guiding Blasius to the stable behind the hut. It was a humble place, but to someone who had spent three months sleeping at nothing but the bare ground, or worse, the sand, it was great. Alexandria was at the coast, so the land was more fertile than in the desert, but nothing could be compared to the soft straw she found at the stables.

The girl snorted as Blasius threw his face on her nape, playing with her hair, her body falling onto the straw she had just adjusted to be a couch. Her face was buried into the ticking bed. It was ridiculous to think that one day she had been the little girl who knew nothing about her magic, the little girl who slept in a great chamber. The little girl who knew nothing about the world beyond the Kingdom of Alba. The little girl that always wore the finest clothes. The little girl scared of her own magic. The little girl who had never valued her family.  At fifteen, she could not remember the girl who had fled from her home, only that when she did that, she was terrified. And the terror she could remember.

But Heka knew that she had a hard time even thinking of herself as a female. Taking a liking of woman didn’t help.

Not that she wasn’t attracted by men, she was, but it was a bit difficult to get men when she was disguised as one. Women were easier, while she had never had sex for obvious reasons – well, she had once; when she found a woman like her, but again, it was hard to find them disguised as a man.

She knew she would never marry, she held no such hopes. Probably someday she would return being a woman – well, maybe – but she knew it wouldn’t be soon. Most girls of her age were already married, and those who weren’t, were at least engaged. Half of them were already mothers, and the others were pregnant. A marriage wasn’t something expected in her future, and she didn’t regret it. While she loved children, there were many that could be mothers. But she was the only one who would be able to discover the secrets of magic. And such thing required a whole life, a life she was willing to sacrifice.

**-x-**

Rowena woke up to watch as a light brown haired child crept through the stables. There were still some hours to the end of the dawn, she knew, yet the boy looked very awake. His name was Lior, she remembered, and he was the exact copy of his mother.

_He must be very curious, judging his eagerness to see me._

And he truly was. Not in the mood to fake her sleep, the girl jerked awake, and started her morning prayers. At the desert she would indulge such practices, but while residing in a Jewish House, she preferred having anything to do with it.

As she continued her morning ritual, she eyed the child carefully. “Would you guide me through your city?” she finally worded, watching as the child’s face brightened with excitement. The last time Rowena had seen such expression was in Nandag’s face, three days before her departure, when she had hold her sister slightly above the ground, making her body float. Her baby sister had been the only one who appreciated her magic back at her former home. It was weird to think six years had passed since that or that her younger sister probably couldn’t even remember her name, much less her face or her magic. Rowena doubted her family talked about the daughter who was a child of the Devil.

She didn’t resent her family – well, she did a bit, but not as much as someone would expect her to – but it didn’t mean that she didn’t think about them. Caoimhe should be married, did she already had children? What were their names? Did they know they had an aunt? Did Nandag know she had another sister? Did she missed her “flying sessions” or she couldn’t remember that she had flown in the air like a bird? She couldn’t stop thinking that Hector should be raping his wife every moment, and the thought made her wanna puke.  Did Jeodfrey and Bertham rape also? Or they only laughed at the tales their cousin told them?

Had her father Eoghan passed away? Did Death welcome him into its arms gently or roughly? Had her brother Aneirin succeeded their father? Or was Lord Hraefn still alive? Was he healthy? Did he hunt every season? Could he still shot anything he wished? Would they believe she was still alive? Alive at Africa?

Those were her thoughts as she followed Lior to the outside. Alexandria, as most cities with harbors, woke up early. Slowly as the boy showed her all places of the Jewish community, she drifted away. She knew she wouldn’t find any information about magic or wizard there. Those could only be acquired at the busiest places of a town without looking suspicious. Nobody could ask if there was someone whose harvest was more fertile, or who had great healing powers, or who wasn’t affected by plagues – someone who had some kind of great fortune – and expect to avoid the question: “Why do you ask?”. And that was a question she usually tried to avoid, and there was better evasion than saying that the crowd took the answer?

Well, to be truthful, there were better evasions, but that was the easiest to reproduce.

“You should search for a Nundu;the blood of the Sphinx you carry won’t be enough to create a wand fit to your power, much less a staff.” Rowena turned her head in the direction of the voice who had spoken to her, as she reached the harbor.

A girl around her age had spoken. She was a beautiful sight, with mocha skin, dark almond eyes, a black mane and plum lips, surely exotic. Her indigo clothes pointed her Tuareg origins, Rowena could tell. She wore colorful accessories, but Rowena couldn’t say if she was truly a Tuareg or just a descendant, while she certainly looked like one, most of them didn’t live there.

“Hello. My name is Tinhinan, daughter of Lemta.” Rowena watched as the woman showed her a wand made of ivory and the Welsh girl took her own wand – an inherence of Merina. The quickly touched the tips of the sticks before hiding them. That was a formal greeting at the East, but a bit dangerous to do in front of many people. Witchcraft wasn’t considered something wrong at the East, but that didn’t mean that two witches couldn’t make someone feel…threatened, and threatened people took harsh actions.

“Roi ben Rapp.”

“A male? Are you sure?” The girl asked curiously. Rowena instantly knew that the woman recognized another female and smirked, as denying wouldn’t work. “Enough to continue being one.”

“Sometimes I wonder who can wizards and witches recognize their peers so easily.” Rowena continued after noticing Tinhinan wouldn’t answer her former statement with anything else but a snort of laughter.

“I do it, too. May I assume that you are here because of the archives?”

“Yes. Do you know where they are?”

The other girl laughed. “No, of course no. Nobody has ever been able to find it. But all wizards that travel to here search for it. I suppose you wouldn’t be different.

“Oh, but I’m different.”

“May I know why?”

Creating a small typhoon in the air, Rowena watched as the wind created waves at the Sea that had once belonged to the Romans. “Because I am going to discover it.”


	6. Blue Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm late with updating, oops! Sorry but I had some tests this week and I've more the next - by the way, the only time I don't have tests is when I'm on vacations. It's a little unfair, don't you think?

 

 

 

> __"The Hell is empty, all devils are here"_ _
> 
> __\- William Shaskspeare_ _

_989_

At the age of eleven, the recently turned eleven years Helga experienced her first love. Easy to say that her protective fifteen years brother/father/protector wasn’t very satisfied with that. The first time she met with Aaron it was on her birthday actually. Salazar had chosen to celebrate the day of Pyff in a village, for a change. Later that day, Helga discovered he had a job there.

Salazar’s jobs usually were a bit creepier than she would like them to be. Usually something like killing a lord to another lord who had a feud with the dead, or killing an heir to another heir, or killing a lord to his heir. When the job wasn’t murdering, it would be something like selling the poisons Helga grew or coercing someone to do something. Salazar was very persuasive, if Aethelindi, his viper, couldn’t convince his target; he had somehow developed his magic to do so.

The witch sighed, sometimes she wished her brother stopped being so protective. He didn’t allow her to do any work but cooking, sewing and gardening to the three of them fearing that she would become something like his mother had been. It was impossible and both of them knew that but he was too prideful to admit needing help; too eager to prove that he could provide for them as once aunt Dreda had done.

Helga knew that soon her brother would have to worry about acquiring his own wand, as the one he had inherit wouldn’t hold his power when he became of age. Gwyneth would be nine when the summer started, at the day of Sauir. Her younger sister held her hand as they walked through the crowd, Salazar long lost in the middle of his business. Suddenly she felt a body meeting her own and jumped away, falling on her butt startled.

“Hey, are you alright?” Helga nodded with a smile, looking to the voice who had asked. A boy with tanned skin, muddy hair and gentle green eyes kneeled to help her. He looked around Sal’s age, but Helga couldn’t help but feel the thumps her heart created as the he returned her smile with a blush. “Should had watched more where I was going. Sorry.” He muttered.

She had a foolish smile on her face as she got up with his help. The side of her eyes was aware of the ironic smirk stamped on Gwyneth’s face as the heat also reached her sister’s face. Helga swore that her younger sister stayed too much time around Salazar, what made everyone cheeky. Actually, Helga was rather aware that her small sister was a two years younger copy of the child she once had been on Hoff. Everyday Helga couldn’t help but admire her brother patience.

“Oh, it’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention either. My name is Helga, daughter of Rhiannon. This is my sister Gwyneth.”

“An outsider? Not much common here. My name is Aaron, son of Eoin, the woodworker.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She said, offering him a beaming smile. Helga had learnt that smiles were the key to a pleasant time. People were usually drawn to others who smiled greatly. The smile, of course, had its specifications. It had to be gentle, polite and trusting. There were those who would judge those smiles foolish, who would hate them, but a warm smile was generally the best way to satisfy your talker. 

After that sudden met, they had begun an animated talk about the harvest, then about some saltimbancos who had arrived at the village. Then, Gwyneth was resting in his back, asleep, and they were talking about their families – well, Aaron was talking, Helga had only mentioned that her whole family had been killed by a plague on the fields; except for her older brother and younger sister.

Aaron was such a great boy, with his easy-going but caring attitude and a bright mischievous smile. She could listen for hours as he told her a tale about the time their pig had ran away and he had to run around the whole city in search for the animal. His hands moved up and down, in circles, waves, punches in the air and claws. He threw his head backwards once in a while but his eyes never left hers, in a great fascination. Helga could felt the heat rising up her cheeks every time he lost his speech and simply started at her for almost a whole minute. Usually when she laughed.

When Salazar had returned to the tavern where they were living that evening, Helga had received the pleasant news that they would be staying for a while. Beaming was how she walked to bed.

**-x-**

While his little sister enjoyed the joys of girlhood, Salazar completed his task in the other side of the village. A Lord had paid him to destroy one of his enemies and as an assassin, his honor and life was always in the bet. The lord hadn’t paid him to kill the man, per se, but to perish all his power. That meant killing even one of the lord’s daughter but his contractor hadn’t hesitated in doing so and neither would Salazar. Diseases were the most effective weapon to those assignments. As magical beings, he and his sisters weren’t affected by most of them and the rest of the village could go fuck itself, as he didn’t care. His hirer didn’t too. Actually, he had asked for it as a bunch of people loyal to a murdered lord could only become vengeful.

The disease he had been infecting the Niall Lake – the water supply to the whole village – was hideous. He had discovered it once at the south, a whole city had been exterminated by it and as a water elementalist, he could sense the wrongs on it, even if he couldn’t really explain the source. He knew it was transmitted by something like and wanderer animal, but he couldn’t see it. After reaching that conclusion, he had taken samples of that water and grasped the presence of several of those tiny animals on it. It wasn’t that hard to move them around, even not seeing it, because he still had his magic.

The disease caused diarrhea and vomiting, sometimes fever. The appearance of those infected was terrible, with sunken eyes, dry mouth and wrinkled skin. Before passing away, most of them would have their skins in a blue tone that could only mean death. It wasn’t nice, not really. Although some survived, not many would, he knew. The villagers who survived would be free to leave, but he had been poisoning the wine supply he could reach with leaves that imitated the symptoms rather well.

Salazar didn’t like to kill, but he received too much money to deny it. At they were non-magicals, he knew they wouldn’t hesitate to burn him and neither would him to do the same to them. He would never regret his jobs, not while he could see the innocent and joyful faces of his sisters. His so loved Helga; his Gwyneth – the two who had been plagued with the disgraceful fate he had also been.

He wouldn’t have imagined he was bound to regret this one.

**-x-**

He knew were his sisters were. It was easy to locate magicals and the city of the church of St. Peter certainly lacked that. The girls he had raised in those last five years were quite easy to locate because of that. Salazar loved those two as he loved the water that flowed in his power. Helga was the sister, the friend he had never had and she had always been. He remembered the time he used to think of her as an annoying burden that her family should be glad he was able to carry.

The wizard didn’t think that anymore. Sure, she was an annoying mother-hen that would always scold him for his amoral jobs and that was infuriating considering she was younger than him and complete helpless in fighting. They would usually irritate each other with their overprotective behaviors. Helga worried about him losing himself into his tasks, about getting killed by a more powerful enemy – he scoffed at that, the only way of him having a more powerful enemy would be facing a magical being, and most of them, wizards or creatures, didn’t involve themselves into those business – or even about the killing he did.

Salazar would argue that if she couldn’t even think aboutkilling she was bound to get killed. And he worried about that. Sure, Helga had amazing power as he did, with her earth control he had once seen her create an earthquake but soon after that, she had sealed everything she could. She feared her powers too much, even in self-defense and she loathed the idea of using a knife to inflict pain. No, she was too sweet, too kind, and in a way, he wished for her staying like this. Because of it, he never allowed her to work, but Morrígan knew that if his sister was hurt by his actions, he would blame himself forever. And practicing her magic in only healing animals or plants in the forests would never bring herself out her helplessness.

If Helga was his sister, Gwyneth was his daughter. The only memory the younger witch had of Hoff was the day they left, and she could only remember the screams of her family burning alive, trapped inside the wrecked house. The only reason they had survived was because Salazar had summoned a bit of water to clear the path out the house before it collapsed. The baby girl used to have nightmares about it.

Salazar had taught the youngest everything he knew. And while that wasn’t much, the girl was always eager to learn more. She understood the world as did Helga on her age, and the sister were very similar in everything but Gwyneth more sassy attitude. Of course, she wasn’t nearly able to beat him and would never be, but she could put some in run for their money. She didn’t have the same restrictions her sister had about his acts, but she was too naïve to he feel responsible while teaching her his techniques. The harshness of the world wasn’t foreign to her, but they weren’t something she had felt.

It was with those thoughts in his mind that he met with the image of his sister laughing with a boy. A good-looking boy that looked at his sister with lustful eyes. His eleven years old sister. The girl he had known since before leaving Hoff, the only girl who had had any interest for the starved boy he had once been. The girl who was too innocent to recognize the boy’s body language, but the wizard did. Oh, he recognized the body he wore every time he met with some attractive woman. He couldn’t recognize the gentleness in those because he was blinded by the desire in the same.

Somebody must have already said that guardians were too protective because of their own perversions. And with rational thoughts lost in a turmoil of possessiveness, Salazar walked in a fast pace to the triplet and grabbed his both sisters’ left arms, pulling them towards himself. And ignoring the shouts of protest of the three, he threw a fierce glare at the boy.

**-x-**

Helga had not taken his interruption lightly, but despite everything, they had both managed to reach an agreement. She wouldn’t marry, have sex or kiss the disgusting boy and wouldn’t reveal any amount of magic in front of him, even to heal. Salazar wasn’t very pleased with the deal, but he knew that it was the only way to prevent her of going overboard and at the same time, avoiding sticking with his two sisters while doing his job. He knew that they wouldn’t agree with it. The deal had happened two weeks before and since then the wizard hadn’t noticed any kind of dangerous proximity between the two children.

Salazar was a bit relieved that it was her first time. All Gods of Magic knew that he had started much earlier than that and if he was a woman, probably he would have already had a child of his own. Well, maybe he already had, but most women would kill their children if the father abandoned them. At least, if they were sure they would never see the man again. Salazar knew all his _lovers_ had that understanding. He knew that if he bore a child with a non-magical, the child would most likely be magical and he would be condemning his blood to starvation, as no non-magical parent would stick with a demon child. Sometimes he wondered if he would have someone to claim the legality he intended to leave to the world. He supposed he could leave everything to his sisters.

With those thoughts was that he walked through the naked bodies of the women at the middle of the night. He loathed that life, but he couldn’t deny it was the most profitable to single woman. Not that he would use their services, he could only see his mother’s face in those and fucking his mother wasn’t in his list of things-to-do and would never be. So he ignored when the whores called him, walking to where he had agreed to meet her. Her name was Ann, a servant at the castle. She was doing him a great service at poisoning the lord, and if shagging a pretty woman and giving her some money was everything he had to do, well, why would him refuse?

Of course, she didn’t know he was also sending a plague to the whole village and that she would probably end up dead because of it and Salazar wouldn’t tell. To Ann, they were just killing an unmerciful and abusive lord. Salazar grasped the idea of being an arsehole, but then he thought about Helga and Gwyneth – his only family – and couldn’t care less. There was family and there was the rest of the world; family was important, the rest of the world could burn.

He caught the sight of the female leaning on the wall, waiting for him with her calloused hands in her womb, absentmindedly. Ann had hazel eyes and a curly brunette hair, her skin tanned by the sun and her body hardened by poverty. He gave her a smirk: “I guess I owe you something?”

The girl smiled. “Many. Lord Leon has been a bit pale the last three days. So have I, but I guess the second is just the weather. It’s been a little difficult to breath.” She waved it off with an anxious smile and brought his hand to her cleavage, wincing slightly. “Sorry, I must be boring you. Just anxious with everything.”

Salazar offered her an indulging nod, rubbing her breasts and erecting a soft moan of her before kissing her jaw gently. “I understand. Can’t blame you, my first time wasn’t that easy either.” He whispered.

He knew that it was rather hypocritical of his to forbid his sister to get involved with a boy when he himself had no idea if he had any bastard. When he was very wary of non-magicals but saw no problem in lading them. That anything that existed in the life after death would consider his immoral acts as a sin a condemn him.  Sometimes he wished there was nothing waiting for you after you died, because then, there would be nobody to shove his mistakes into his face.

He knew that someone who cared so much for his family shouldn’t leave two females alone in a tavern, even with wards and spells protecting them. Oh, he knew his girls could defend themselves if the building caught fire or something like that – the only possibility he could think that he wards couldn’t prevent of helping. After seeing her relatives being burned alive, Helga never returned to enter in a place before drawing several plans to flee. Neither had Salazar. Gwyneth was still picking that habit, but they always shared their thoughts with the youngest girl.

He was suffocated by Helga’s caring nature and he knew it. And also ashamed of his own attitude. He loved them dearly, sure, but while she demonstrated her love by simply worrying about them, he cut their wings, preventing them to fly and doing all journey alone. Gwyneth had spoken those words before he left that day and he had understood their meaning at the same time. Maybe because he already knew.

There were also times that Salazar wished his witches were older than him. He wouldn’t felt ashamed of his acts if it wasn’t a nine years old girl that had dropped the truth. Before the wizard thought Gwyneth and Helga were like fire and water, but sometimes he noticed that the two girls were just too perceptive to their ages and the blood could be everything in those cases.

Ann tightened the grip on his shirt as they cummed together. Yes, he had to deliver a bit more of poison to the girl, otherwise the effects would stop. Huh…he should have withdrawn it before but who cared? It was like it was the first time, with Ann or other girl. Well, he knew there was a time of the month that women didn’t had to care about it…the perks of being raised by a prostitute; who, despite not being able to conceive after his birth, didn’t had any regards about speaking of it. Surely, if Helga or Gwyneth had fled away with another male, they would have some problems understanding their womanhood.

He sighed as he walked away from Ann. The girl would complete her task. That was good. Soon, the disease would take the village and if its lord died, nobody would think much about the outsiders leaving the city with a bunch of villagers.

**-x-**

It was the wizarding day of Thanes when Gwyneth felt ill.

Helga had watched in despair as her beautiful sister collapsed while helping the older witch in gardening the flowers of asphodel. Her sweaty hair creating a halo around her head her mouth opened to the vomit. She coughed as her eyes rose to meet her older sister’s before throwing up once again.  Helga’s widened in realization and she held her sister’s hair to the child finish purging her stomach’s content. No. Not her sister. Not while Sal had trusted her to keep her only remaining family alive while he completed his job.

“No, no, no _nononono._ No! You can’t, Gwyn!” Not her sister. Not her innocent sister. Not the girl who had held her hand with her tiny grip when a baby. Not the child who would sneer at her when she blushed while speaking with Aaron. Not the baby who would hug her waist every morning and kiss her shoulder with a bright laugh. Not the girl who poked her ribs every time she rambled. Not the girl who would set herself in Helga’s lap and shove a brush into the girl’s face, asking her sister to comb her hair. Not a witch. Her sister couldn’t receive the death sentence the disease that had reached the village proved to be.

Yet, Gwyneth just had.

The youngest coughed a bit more and Helga nodded briefly as she hugged her sister. Their tears merged together in river of water. It had been three weeks since the first villager had felt ill. They had not ran away immediately as some had – but not many, people couldn’t leave their homes even with a death threat – because wizards wasn’t normally affected by muggle diseases. But Helga had recognized the disease, and so had her siblings. Even before someone died, Helga knew most of the village was doomed to death. And that night, she had cried so much – the prospect of her Aaron in a graveyard; the kind lady who smiled to her in the Death’s Arms, the kind baker who gave her free bread everyday succumbing to death. Everybody that succumbed to the illness died in two or three days at most.

Helga had to fight with tears, shaking and despair to bring her sister to the couch. _Oh, Heke and Hecate, no. This can’t be happening. Not with Gwyn. Dispater and Ankou, why her? Why do you choose her? Wasn’t mam, papa, Huw, Ifan, Bethan and Auntie Dreda enough to you? Not Gwyn, please. I beg to you, Iovantucarus, please, protect my baby sister. Moritasgus, help my sister. Heal my sister._ She watched as her sister defecated and threw up, Helga’s arms working to shove water on her throat.

 “HELP! Someone help me!” Helga cried out. “SAL, please, Sal, make it stop! Make it stop!”

 But nobody came. As the rings of the church announced another death, Helga could only set herself in an automatic pace; drying her baby and whispering sweet nothings to the baby she loved. Gwyneth cried and watched as her body crumbled to death, a spectator of her own decay. And they comforted each other, fully aware that she wouldn’t survive until the end of the week. That she wouldn’t be alive to her next year, to the next season.

And only when Salazar arrived at the middle of the night with the news of the end of his task, was that the wizard became truly aware of his mistakes. That there were some diseases that even magicals weren’t immune to. That his baby sister was on her deathbed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the disease is supposed to be cholera. There is no register of a cholera crisis on Europe on the this time, and because of it, I used it.


	7. The Greatest from the Most Wrecked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. Don't hate me because I destroy everyone's life. I had my reasons. For example, the greastest come from the worst. Dumbledore had to take care of his wrecked family because his parents were dead, and because of his irresponsability, he lost his sister. Tom had a very difficult life at the orphanage, his father had abandoned his mother who prefered to die than raise her son. Harry was neglected and abused by the Dursleys since always, and he is an orphan and suffered from much public-hate. Sirius had the worst kind of relationship with his family, ran away from home and was later imprisioned in the Despair Island, aka Azkaban. Remus was alway rejected and judged by society. Severus came from a broken home and lost the love of his life because of his mistakes...Do you honestly believe that a girl from Scotland, two guys from England and a kid from Welsh would met if they didn't had any reason to leave home at the middle ages? London was a village and I doubt Diagon Alley existed at the time. There was no cities, people lived isolated. No, they wouldn't met. And certainly, they would built a castle and leave everything behind if they had something to be attached to. My point is; there is no away Hogwarts (a school, in the time people were only taught in monasteries) would be built to people who led good lives.

_989_

A figure stood in the middle of the chamber, a man with auburn hair and sharp expression, in maroon robes. Eadmund, Lord of Griffins, his father. Beside him, his mother, Taeria, stood in her violet robes, the beautiful ginger that shared her ocean-blue eyes with Godric smiled to her son. His two older sisters and his younger brother threw the ashes in the fire, that grew to seven feet.

Samhain. Behind Godric, wizards and witches sung a lullaby in a language forgotten by the world. As the first fire elemental in their line, Godric should thank the ancients by walking into the flames.

The teen watched as his body drowned in the fire. Pain. The fire washed his eyes and destroyed his robes. His crimson hair was transformed into ashes and the sharp pain reigned over his body.

Godric breathed the fire, and the flames engulfed his mouth, down his throat. Air, he didn't need air. Fire was his savior and as the element became his body, Godric didn't know anything else.

“Eate and Grannus, Hephaestaus and Hestia. This servant of fire commits himself to honor, kill and preserve for those names. May fire always sputter in these hearths.”

Then, he stepped out. The seventeen years old wizard nodded to his father. He was ready to guide his family. Now he only had to craft his own wand.

“Let your servant born in Griffins at the day of D’Or find his equal.”

The Ceremony of Wand Crafting was an old tradition to the ones born in Griffin. The protectors of Griffins and Hippogriffs, they were, and they usually find their cores in those creatures. Godrc had never had such great relationship with griffins, and while hippogriffs welcomed him, he wasn’t able to find a core in those either – so, the journey. The wood would always be from the tree planted on their birth. In Godric’s case, a cypress. The branch who had fallen when he had summoned the tree was a particular unyielding one, around seventeen inches. It said much about his personality, his sister Ramona, who studied wandlore, had said. Something about being noble, courageous and brave, foolish and two light to her own taste, being a stubborn idiot with a very complex personality – the last fact seemed to surprise her and she had admitted that she never thought of as the complex type. To Godric’s dismay, his whole family had also said he didn’t look very complex, until his fiancée Katrina intervened saying that he must be, considering the wood of his future wand.

Godric knew he had chosen his partner well. After he finished the ceremony, he went to find his love in their hiding place. He would have to depart before the day started, but the night had just come. He found her near the apple tree that would provide her wand wood in two years. Katrina had sharp features and large lips, her brunette hair always braided with gray feathers of those born in Hwéol. Her body was slender and bony – she was beautiful in her own way, her skin marked by the time she passed on the moors, practicing magic.  She was always warm and loved to test her magic against him. He would always won, but that wasn        ‘t a surprise – despite being a moron according to his family, he had long ago become better at wizardry and swords duels than everyone in the village or castle.

He wasn’t that good in witchcraft, but that was an ability long forgotten to his family. No, he had dominated what they knew. Apparating and creating wards, and some charms. Ramona had been taught by their great-aunt the art of wandlore – but that was only to women in his family, and just one in every generation. 

“You are going.” She said, as he ate one of the apples of her tree. Katrina hated her apples, she said they tasted like powered to her but Godric liked the rough texture. “Don’t eat this. I can just hope that my wand won’t feel like those apples taste. They are heinous.”

Godric laughed as she took the fruit of his hands, biting it with a grimace. “See? Bad.”

“They were born with you, I could never hate them even if I wanted.”

“Sweet lover boy, aren’t you? But you are leaving me.” She pouted and Godric wrapped his arms around her waist, as she kissed his temple down to his jaw. “I promise to return.” He mumbled, his body shivering with lust as he felt her cleavage pressed against his chest, the scent of apples that she loathed filling his nose with the proximity. Once Godric had wondered if his scent was of cypress, too, but Katrina had said he smelled like cinnamon and ginger.

He remembered the time they had first met. Katrina was around thirteen and he had just turned fifteen. She was the daughter of a warder who had just returned from his quest and her mother was dead since she was ten, attacked by a werewolf. Godric vaguely remembered her father, Hagen, before he departed. He was the bastard son of his grandmother, and his uncle. The story of Godric’s grandparents were rather sad, his grandmother was raped by a werewolf when his grandfather was away – when he returned, his grandfather found his wife pregnant, and the woman had begged for him to kill her. His grandfather had never done it, and when he finally extracted the truth from his wife, he had welcomed his wife and taken Hagen as his younger son. His uncle had grown to be a fine man, stronger than even his father, and become and ward master. He had several problems with werewolves, what led him to abandon his family  to its safety. But when his wife was killed, he knew he had to return, to Katrina’s sake  and so he did.

Godric fell in love immediately, and for almost one year, he had thought he was the only one. When his feelings were discovered and reciprocated, he had had a fierce battle with uncle Hagen to her daughter’s hand, what led Godric to be recognized as the greatest dueller of the family when he won. The last year had been heaven to the young wizard, and he was only waiting to his wand ceremony to wed his love.

His stubborn, pretty, strong-willed, generous, sassy, and worried Katrina.

“What are you thinking about? Are you anxious?”

“I was thinking about you, sweetie. And while I can deny my excitement and eagerness and fear for not being able to attain a satisfactory core, I’m not anxious. I’m just…”

“Thoughtful.” Katrina finished.

“Yes, full of thoughts. But they weren’t about my quest. I want us to marry at the same day I return. I will ward this tree as our mating symbol and we will marry under its branches. The wedding ritual will be conducted with my own wand, under the core of yours, and our love will last as long as Magic does. We will built a house on the top of the hill, and we will only move when my father become unable to reside on the castle. I want a small cottage where we will all be happy, maybe we can open the castle to the whole village, and nobody will have to worry about casting warming wards around their houses at the winter, because the castle will keep them safe and warm…Your hair will be braided with gray feathers and apple leaves at our weeding, and I will walk on hot coals to receive my bride, as a fire elementalist should.”

Katrina giggled between her moans on his chest. “You are such a dreamer. Our children will have apple face if this tree becomes our symbol, and they will taste terribly.”

“Tasting our children? Are you a cannibal?” He stopped his reverie for a moment to look at her incredulous. “Oh, and our children! How many should we have? Thirty? Twenty?”

“You should know by now that this isn’t something you can easily control. But the amount tends to increase the more we fuck, so are we going to?” She asked teasing while Godric slided his hands down to her womanhood.

As he pressed her body against the fern, one of the last moments they would have together, the night coldness was forgotten to a welcoming heat as the two lovers were held together on the summer embrace.

**-x-**

The Kingdom of Alania. Sometimes, Godric couldn’t believe he had reached so far apparating, but when he had left the Griffin Castle, he wished for the place where he would find his destiny, and he had travelled to a place where he didn’t know the language or the culture, and he had no idea where he was before finding a map after three weeks. We was to the East from where the Carlemagne had created his Empire, that had crumbled down long ago, but people still used as reference;  

A place where most people had golden skin and every one had dark hair. Long expressions were a rule, in beautiful or ugly, and he taken some time creating a translating spell. The villages were great, busy and crowed. They wore colorful clothes, and his red semblance detached him from the others as light inside a dark dungeon. But he wasn’t surrounded by people now. No, he was facing a cat-like giant animal, with dark long mane extended to his belly and golden fur, the head-to-tail length around seven feet. Its muzzle reminded him a bit of a dog, though it was clearly a feline.

But the creature wasn’t attacking. It wasn’t even looking to him, but to his back. He turned to see a even more terrifying being with a body similar to the first and the tail of a scorpion. But the most heinous aspect of it was the humanoid head,  the skin was paper-like leather, dry and taut to evolve the rough and crooked nose, there was no lips, just sharp fangs which grew from a dark and bloody gum, ragged and wry ears in his up head. His big eyes were the safe harbor in a tormented sea, the blood red orbs dancing and twinkling in a strange and enchanting dance.

Godric knew that animal. He had heard about him on minstrel’s songs. A manticore, with the body of a lion, tail of a scorpion and head of man. So, the first creature should be a lion. Two males, he noticed. And while the first made him feel comfortable and safe, the second called him. Oh, he knew that feelings. His brother Fheon had told him that the first feeling was from a familiar bound; something related on their great-grandfather’s diary. So, he had a potential familiar bound in a lion.

The second was a bit depressing, and at the same time, exciting. He would have to kill the creature, and he had no idea of how he was supposed to do this. But finding his wand core on that animal would need it to be dead, as Godric knew it wouldn’t give anything.

He approached the smaller animal, the lion and touched his mane. Immediately, a pleasant feeling rushed through all his body, sending a comforting wave of happiness through him. Baghatur, he knew his name, and it was it. He didn’t know the meaning, but it had to be it, as the word was shouted on his head when he touched it.

“Baghatur.” The lion rose his head, facing him with an understanding, civil and at the same time wild, look. He was the king of the nature, and he was wild. But he heard the master of fire, and he was his equal. The lion was the animal in the man as the wizard was the man in the wild. Magical familiar. “Distract him.”

And as the feline beast attacked the hybrid, the future Godric Gryffindor swigged his sword and launched himself at the fifteen feet manticore.

Only when he had beheaded the creature was that the wizard was again able to feel the push of magic, calling his core to the core in the animal. And there they were, manticore poison, heartstring and fang.

**-x-**

How to craft one’s wand was taught by the wandmaster of the family to all those who were going to the wand ceremony. The fact Godric was a fire elementalist changed something, for example, that he should craft his wand inside the fire. A large fireplace would work, but Ramona had suggested that if he wanted the finest and most proper wand, he should enter in a volcano. At first, Godric had looked at his sister confused, having no idea what was a volcano. When she explained what it was, he had looked at her gobsmacked as if she was some sort of lunatic. But she had just smiled to him.

As Godric jumped into the crater of volcano on the land of the Romans, he couldn’t help but feel like a full. He had apparated again to several locations, asking for the signs of an eruption. Well, it didn’t really need to be erupting, just active was enough. He watched as Baghatur watched him falling into the cliff. Now, he had no idea how he would return to the ground, as flying wasn’t a skill he had. Maybe he could control the fire to push him up? It could work.

Being wrapped in an ocean of lava were similar to being inside fire in his Wand Ceremony, but more real. The branch or the core wouldn’t burn while he didn’t wish them to. The lava was beautiful, deadly but gorgeous, hot, extremely hot. Again, his hair was burnt and his clothes taken by the fire, but Godric didn’t care anymore. The fire stole, but it would also return. And his hair would return when he left the crater. As he would do. He would return to home.

So, he started the process, wishing for the lave to melt the branch into an acinaces-like shape. He had seen the sword once while in Kingdom of Alania and had been fascinated with it. As he worked with wood, the poison and the fang melted in the lava, washing its insides and then the heartstring would slip through its bottom, sealing the work.

**-x-**

But when the day to return home come, Godric looked at a destroyed castle, in a destroyed village and walked through the passageways. Mostly everyone were there. His father, his mother, his brothers and sisters. His friends, his family, his acquaintances. The few who had flew, Godrc knew they wouldn’t return. He had seen that scenery so many times. Seen the destroyed families, the noble houses perished. Attacked.

When he approached their hiding place, Godric turned to see his love lying dead in the tree roots. Her clothes ripped and bloodied, exhaling a scent he didn’t want to recognize.

Because the greatest people come from the most wrecked places and Godric had just joined that group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite one majorly wrong thing in this story - the period of Witch Hunts - I try to be the historical accurate while writing. At around 991the Mount Vesuvius was active, so this is where Godric crafted his wand. The last wild lions in Europe were extinct in X century at the Caucasus, Baghatur is a barbary lion, native from North Africa - I considered close enough. I would prefer using the European Lion, but they were already extinct, while Barbary would only be at the 20th century. Kingdom of Alba referes to Kingdoms of Scotland during the period of 900-1286, while the Kingdom of Alania existed during the period around the 8th or 9th century until 1239. Cholera wasn't a disease of the middle ages and this is good, but I don't feel good thinking of Salazar sending a plague to the whole Europe. If you have more points to add, please fell free to do. I love those buttons of Comment, Kudo and Bookmark.  
> By the way, I feel like writing something about Aerya...what do you think?


	8. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I seem to be able to get back to this fanfic. I've settled some things, and defined the plot. I'm now looking for a beta, who I don't have. Sorry for the long, extremly long wait. I've probably disappointed many with this return.

_1980_

There are people, who have their destinies sealed before they were even born, and Arya Lys Potter was one of them. Maybe, nothing would have happen if Sybil Trelawney had not met with Albus Dumbledore at the rainy day of July 8th in 1980, maybe, if Severus Snape hadn’t gone to Hog’s Head to pick his Potions sixth year book at Hogwarts,  nothing would have happen. Or maybe, it would. Fate was never something that wizards could really understand, so they wouldn’t be able to explain if the prophecy wouldn’t be revealed in other way.

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark the one as his equal, but the one will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...."_

If Severus Snape had known his childhood friend and forever-loved one was pregnant, maybe he wouldn’t have been so eager to tell his lord. But of course, he did not. The last time he had saw her was in her wedding one year before, and they hadn’t talked. Actually, he had just watched as his Lily swore her undying love for his enemy with a bitter grimace and clenched fists.

Yet, the Dark Lord knew. He had watched James Potter defending his very pregnant wife in their third time facing him, in a raid to the city of Worchester. Four hundred and eighty days after that event, Lily and James Potter would lay dead at their house, their eyes facing the ceiling. The Dark Lord would have disappeared and the name of Arya Potter had been plagued with the fate of being forever remembered as the one who had survived the Killing Curse.

Because her parents had thrice defied the Dark Lord, because a Potion Master hadn’t know his childhood friend was pregnant and due July. Because the same man had needed to find his annotations on the Draught of Living Dead, because a Sybil Trelawney had prophesied something, because she was the great-great granddaughter of celebrated seer; because the Professor Tonstaunt had decided to retire to life among centaurs.   

People are the results of many actions done by others, others than one can never know.

And with that, the conviction that a peaceful time awaited the Wizarding World would last for fifteen years. And for twelve, Albus Dumbledore would also believe in it, thinking that the prophecy was fulfilled. Those who knew of the Horcruxes, preferred to forget about it. Nobody wanted to remember the Dark Lord during those years.

But people are fated to repeat the things they oblige to forget.

_1991_

Arya Lys Potter had no memory of being loved, and she couldn’t believe she had already been. At the age of ten, the girl knew she wasn’t supposed to be, she was a freak, after all. Sometimes, she wished to try to stand out, to surpass Dudley’s grades at school, to comb her hair a bit to look like an human being, to sew and adjust some of her clothes – Dudley’s clothes actually. But Arya knew she wasn’t supposed to, as her name meant nothing, her life wasn’t going to.

Well, actually, Lys had a French meaning – lily – but Arya was just a poor arrange to Aria, song or air, or if you wanted to consider it meant noble in Sanskrit. She had done her homework, she had just to throw it away after doing it, as she wasn’t allowed to be better than Dudley.

She had no friends, and certainly the Dursleys  couldn’t be her family. No, her parents had preferred to be dead than to raise such a freak. She didn’t blame them. See? She wasn’t supposed to be loved.

That had been her law of life until she turned eleven, until she met her destiny – the Wizarding World.

There, she became the heroine. The one who parents loved too much, enough to give their lives to her. Adored by the people, famous and magical. She was sorted in Gryffindor, the House of the Noble and Brave – and before it happened, she was sure she would end at Hufflepuff, as everyone seemed to think it was the House of Losers; the Hat had said she was a snake, but she had insisted on being a lion and so she became. It was the first time she stood to state what she thought she was right to do, it wouldn’t be the last.

The time she fled with Draco Malfoy to claim Neville’s remembrall proved to her that sticking to her values could bring benefits, as she made to Gryffindor’s team as the youngest seeker of the century.

She had found friends; love, in a rush of adrenaline that made them kill a troll. United by trauma. And latter, by trust, secrets, fights and sacrifice. Going in the quest for the Philosopher’s Stone had helped, too. She, Ron and Mione were friends.

At twelve, she had doubted of love. Were love something really strong or it could be forgotten by time? By holidays? But then, the house elf had appeared and she understood that her love was for always. Aerya was happy. She was loved. Even if she couldn’t return to Hogwarts because Dobby had sealed the Platform – she was still loved. Even a strange house elf cared for her, yes, he had an odd way of expressing it, but he cared.

But at twelve, she also understood that fame was a double-edged sword. It was welcoming when people smiled at you, uncomfortable when they whispered about you, and hurtful when they accused and blackmailed you. She had learnt to discern love of acquaintance, trust of interest. She had lost most of the friendships she had made at Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff that year, and found one in Luna Lovegood, and other in Daphne Greengrass, and she had learnt to conceal some of her abilities. Like parseltongue.

Then, she killed the basilisk and saved Ginny, and nobody doubted of her anymore. She had learnt about pardon and its power. Pardon conquered loyalty, they said.

At thirteen she understood the real meaning of being betrayed – not by media, but by a friend, not hers, but theirs. They…her parents, her godfather. She had faced fear, her greatest fear was Fear and its loyal friend Despair. But Aerya had also learnt that Hope saved more than anything, because hope gave people the power to stand. And she knew how difficult was to stand.

It was at thirteen that she had also understood why people wanted the other side of love. Fred had showed her a bit of it. She had liked, become addicted, too. But things had fallen apart as they also understood that sometimes, friendship was better than romance. They had joked and smiled at each other, and Aerya had pointed to Angelina Johnson and said to him run to her, before his brother picked the girl. She had learnt that Houses didn’t separate the evil from the good.  

At fourteen, she had trained. Trained to the tournament she didn’t wish to be. Trained to the Death Eater that started to attack. She had lost her trust in authorities, and again, faced the loss of friendships. Oh, she already knew that fights made friendships stronger if they survived, but she feared they wouldn’t. Still, she understood, she wished she couldn’t, but she could. To Ron, she was a huge building that shadowed his whole path, but he didn’t see he was also a huge building, and that the sun never projected their shadows on each other.

She had found love again. In a fellow competitor, her Cedric. But Cedric was dead, and her years of light had ended. Her four sweet years where she was allowed to be happy had come to an end with the threating shadow that overtook the whole Wizarding World, even if people couldn’t see. It had taken her lover, and then, taken the light of her life.

At fifteen, things were a mixture of mourning, teaching, standing for the right, trusting, learning, and fighting. And she had just too little time to love, because she knew things could be taken from her earlier than she wished. But she had taught. Because they should be able to survive when things got worse, and she swore she would make them to. She had approached everyone, she had smiled to old enemies, because bigotry didn’t mean anything when your heart become colder than ice.

They had to learn, and adults wouldn’t teach. And again, things were taken from her. The home she had found in Sirius, the warm feeling of his skin. Jokes and sass. Her scraped hand was a remembrance that everyone lied, and that lies were deadly.

1996

_Flash!_

“Ary, you have been alleging He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s return since last year. You were greatly discredited through the following months. How do you feel about those who ill spoke about you?” The raven-haired witch had the urge to laugh; as if they weren’t included in that particular group. How convenient, mother fuckers. 

_Flash!_

“Ms. Potter, you are a fifteen years old teenager and you have managed to hold your feet while fighting against You-Know-Who, one of the most feared dark lords of all times. Would you reveal your secrets to us?” As if, first it would be foolish revealing battle-techniques to possible enemies. And second, were they really asking her it? The reporters couldn’t expect her to have battled with Voldemort using things similar to _expelliarmus, lumos_ or _stupefy,_ and anything worse could prove to be an one-way ticket to Azkaban…she would have to be crazy to admit it.

_Flash!_

“Arya, people are calling you the Chosen One, is this true? Do you feel ready to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” “How do you intend to defeat him?” It was funny how did they seem to jump to other questions even though she hadn’t answered the first. She had to wonder how they would react if she told them  that she was going to be killed by Voldemort, and all of them too. Because she was the only one who could defeat him, but was too weak to do so.

_Flash!_

“Arya, any comments about Dolores Umbridge disappearance? How do you feel knowing that she used to punish your fellow students with blood quills?”  Well, she was her first victim, morons. How could she not feel enraged? And about her disappearance…the Gryffindor was only able to wish for the death of the bitch toad.

_Flash!_

“Aerya, your parents named Sirius Black your godfather, and for years we believed that he was a mass-murder. Today, we discovered that Sirius Black was a great man and loyal friend, who happened to be a victim of the first war. How do you feel about your godfather’s imprisonment and death?”

Bad question…really bad question. She just killed her only remaining family member with her actions and those assholes dared to ask her how she felt about his death? Fuck.

_Flash!_

Feeling Luna grasp her hand as the reporters continued to fire question after question, her clothes stained by a pool of blood that wasn’t hers. The emerald-eyed witch let her pain, her regret and her rage be soothed by the girl and the friends standing behind her, Mione’s hands clasped her left. Ron was behind the bushy haired witch, and Neville behind the dirty-blonde one, both of them trying to avoid the cameras. The girls had no qualms about it, they had more facility comforting, and were better at ignoring the flashes. Daphne, Wayne and Ginny had been pushed by the crowd of journalists, and observed from faraway with Remus and the others. Dumbledore was close, answering his fair share of questions. Arya had to be grateful that she wasn’t the only focus there.

 She had just being freed of her asylum admission, killing one of the bloody journalist wouldn’t help.

 _Flash!_ Bloody heel, those photographers were asking for it. “One year ago your boyfriend was killed by We-Know-Who, ‘Ary, have you already been in a relationship after that?” She stiffened at that, suddenly holding Luna’s hand didn’t seem that effective. Pulling the girl to herself, she pushed her lips against the blonde’s in a fierce kiss, one of her eyes fixed at the camera’s lens, other watching the flustered face of her girl, that mirrored her own. As Luna hesitantly ran her tongue through the lioness’s mouth, Arya moaned encouragingly before pulling away and giving an apologizing look to the younger girl.

The Ravenclaw shrugged with peaceful smile, as if to reassure her that nothing had changed. There was attraction between the two, but they had agreed months ago that there was no chance of anything happening before Voldemort’s defeat. Now that she knew of the prophecy, Arya had to wonder if they would ever have the chance of giving a try at all.  

“Me and Luna had been experimenting since two weeks ago.” She lied, conveniently forgetting about the proximity ban that Umbitch had decreed those weeks before – not that mattered, as nothing was stated about same sex relationships. “I loved Cedric, and I’ll always hold him dearly in my heart, but when he was still alive, he said once to me that life was too short to be wasted. I’m bound to agree. We once joked that if one of us died at the Tournament, the other would live for the two of us. And I’m living.”

“I’m living to Cedric, to Sirius – my beloved godfather who I had never had the chance to really meet – to my parents. I’m living to all of those who were killed at the war, and you should too. And I swear I’ll be living until the last Death Eater is imprisoned and Voldemort lay dead at our feet.”

“We must life, we must be happy. A man once said to me that happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light. This are dark times, but dark doesn’t last forever.  There is no denying that there is evil in this world but the light will always conquer the darkness. Stay strong, and remember to cherish every moment of your life, every friendship and every smile. Life and be happy, that’s the first one can do if one wishes to fight against Voldemort’s reign of terror.” Her eyes meet the lens of the photographer of the Daily Prophet. “Thank you.”

_Flash!_

As she walked away to the fireplaces accompanied by Luna, Mione, Ron, Nev, Gin, Daph and Wayne, Arya could not help but doubt at her words. The words: Do you truly believe in what you said, were implied to her, and to all of them, and she shook her head.

She accepted their compliments on her little speech, knowing that she had to explain the reason behind it. “Panic and fear gives Voldemort too much power. Dumbledore told me the wizarding world needed some sort of assurance and so I gave them.”

“Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.” Hermione agreed with a tired and gentle smile.

“Yes,” Luna continued in a calm tone, her finger wiping a tear from Arya's cheek. “But _hope_ seems so lost, doesn’t she?”

-x-

Blood, blood trailing through her wrists, her snowy skin tainted by the red, as the black her hair darkened her back like ink on paper. Her nails dirtied in the process of flaying her hands. I must not tell lies was  engraved on her own disfigured body – as the greatest lie she continued to tell. She felt so hypocrite. Laughing at herself, she remembered that two months before she had promised to live for all those dead in the Ministry. At her chest, the dates July 18th and August 6th had joined the June 24th and the large October 31th . Ced and Sirius, her two parents. The four people she had lost to the Dark Lord. August 6th was a much more gruesome date, truly.

She had been watching a documentary about the victims of Little Boy fifty-one years ago before going out to make the already planned tattoo of the day the Battle of Ministry had happened, what inspired her into engraving the other date too.

Then, she had tried to kill herself at the end of the day – burning her alive seemed like a gruesome enough act to mark the Dursleys mind forever, to remember them of the neglected girl that had once lived in their cupboard. But of course, her fucking idiot dumb luck had to end the fire with a wave of accidental magical and now, the day would stay forever engraved in her heart, for her shame.

She dishonored much more than only herself by doing it, she had dishonored all the victims of the bomb. Damn world.

Her failed suicide attempt had not stopped her from scratching her hand unconsciously every moment, though, and now the wounds didn’t seem much favorable to heal. They would, she knew, those silly wounds couldn’t stop her fucking magical body but everything seemed so…tiring. Sometimes, she wished she was just allowed to die.

And then she thought about her family, her friends, who had surpassed their own prejudices to welcome her, that would understand her even if she didn’t explain her actions,  who risked their lives just to stand by her side. She thought about all those children in St.Mungos’ – those whose eyes shined just by watching Arya Potter, those who adored her, those cute children who made a dark face at her and made petulant comments, those who would shy away when she appeared – they would die like those in Hiroshima had.

Because she was unable to defeat a bloody Dark Lord.

The Prophecy. The fucking prophecy which had just too many meanings – after all, both of them had been alive for all those years, so how was it possible? Sure, Voldemort had been just a soul for most of time, but there was a time when both of them were living – well, surviving was a better term, but who cares. Then, there was the fucking power. Arya had a great arsenal of spells, sure, all thanks to the Twizard Tournament, and she could hold her own while facing Voldy, but that not mean she could kill him. No, she had some doubts about that part.

She knew that nevertheless the prophecy, she would have to kill Voldemort, or die trying. And she would die, for her friends. Not living with them seemed a small price to pay if they could be happy, and so it would if that was the case. She knew they would understand. As Sirius would have understood the fact she wasn’t naked at her own bed.

Arya didn’t really know him. She had met him at a coffee shop after leaving the British Museum Reading Room in the British Library. The witch had gone to London every day during that Summer, but never to the Wizarding World – she just used it as an excuse to not being recognized by anyone as the freakish niece of the Dursleys or as the chosen one.

He was just a good looking guy who had followed her after she dropped the drawing that Luna had made to her of the whole DA. His name was Chris Perks. Hers was Jay, Jay Grey. Maybe he believed in her, maybe he didn’t, but she hadn’t refused his advances, just because he looked rather gloomy as well and that was good to her depressive mood.

A nice and harsh round of sex where people didn’t care much if they were hurting each other because they were just too depressed was great. Luna had told her that if she needed, she could rely on her – but she knew she wouldn’t. Luna’s feelings were much more important and if she needed to shout and scream at Arya for betraying her (although they weren’t really in a relationship), and if she didn’t want to talk to Arya after discovering – the older girl would make sure her rage would be pleasant at least the younger of them. Because being angry without needing to feel regret was great, greater than sex – but the regret didn’t left her so this option was crossed out to her.

And she would never let her friends watch her obsession with her own blood.

Scrambling away from the cheap sheets, she watched her body moving at the full length mirror. Her paranoia had obliged her to run around Little Whinging every night since the Tournament, and a whole year of running around Hogwarts had hardened her body. She was slender, not that tall but really athletic, with fitting curves at the right places and a bloody tiny waist. Her strong jaw, high cheekbones and black curly hair traced her lineage back to some pureblood family, and undeniable aristocratic look balanced by her almond-shaped emerald eyes, decorated by long and thick lashes. Feminine and natural rosy lips smirked below her fitting nose and she wore pegged pants and a large gray jumper that swept around her knees and hided her hands. She had some obvious scars, at wrists, at the forehead because of the killing curse, at her back, a large mark of a whip. Her feet shoved into oxford shoes. She looked like a poor nerdy girl and wondered how could Chris be interested.

She left the apartment that moment, without any road or way. She didn't have a home to return, neither a family. She had killed the only family she had had. But Arya couldn’t care. She just wished to be away.

-x-

A meeting with Dumbledore, was how everything had started.

The headmaster had shown her the memory of the Gaunts and of Merope Gaunt’s life. The poor, abused and hopeful girl, the woman who had, obsessed by the hope of being loved, manipulated. A poor soul who had lost her way and done evil deeds; A woman who had abandoned her child because she saw no joy in living. And thus, the woman who created Voldemort. Arya had no right to judge the wrecked woman. Not when a tattoo on her own chest marked the date she had corrupted her parents’ sacrifice in her own selfish mind.

She had been proud for being a bit more responsible the few times she had had sex and drank a contraceptive potion, because she was sure she wouldn’t raise a better child than Tom Riddle Jr. 

Voldemort was born from a bunch of regretful actions.

Could she really blame him? How would she react if she had spent her own childhood without being loved, as she had, and went to a new place hoping to find a home just to discover that nobody cared for her there too? Arya had never forgotten her childish dreams of someone suddenly appearing and snatching her away from the Dursleys, fulfilled dreams by Hagrid. But Tom Riddle had not. He had never found a place to himself, being in the Wizarding World or on the Muggle. And the muggles, they had all abandoned and hurt him, hadn’t they? Could she blame him for his hate? Did she have the right to?  
Voldemort had to be stopped and she would do it. Her resolve hadn’t moved an inch with the memory, but that left a bitter taste on her mouth. He wasn’t the child of the orphanage, but that child was a part of him. Where did blame began and pardon ended?

The Chamber of Secrets. She had never thought she would return there, but she had. Because she wanted to see the place the younger Voldemort had considered his safe harbor, the place where she had met the handsome boy who would become the most feared man in the world, an ugly man.

 As the skeleton of the giant basilisk dripped venom on the stone floor, Arya walked to center of it, feeling a sudden pull of electricity on her stomach, and ozone smell invading her senses.

Its walls closed themselves into a ribbed ceiling above Arya, and her steps echoed on the empty chamber, leading her body to a glowing rune in the floor. The witch analyzed it. She hadn’t seen the scripture before, was it there on her second year or someone had written it there? No, she was paranoid, there were only two parselmouths in the world and she was one of them. Voldemort couldn’t be the responsible, he couldn’t have penetrated into Hogwarts since 1993, could he? Well, she felt no ill intention from the rune so it wasn’t possible. If Voldemort had invaded, someone would be dead or he would have left something to destroy the school. Most probably.

So, it had to be already there. She certainly hadn't seen it back at her second year, but she had more pressing matters to solve that time. A giant glowing rune wouldn't have caught her attention...who she was kidding? Of course it would. Maybe there was another parselmouth in the world? Highly improbable, even more if she reduced the range to people who had been in Hogwarts.

Someone had once told her that magic was unpredictable, but still, it wasn't possible to a rune just appear in the middle of a chamber, was it? Perhaps. She should bring Hermione, her best female friend would be extremely interested in it.

Unconsciously she stepped over the rune, and then all the shit happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Aerya is Arya. There is an explanation.

**Author's Note:**

> Another story, hope you like it! It's my new darling so I'll be spoiling this one a bit before updating the other two. But I'll write. Okay, now I must say I am very pleased of having you to read this until the end and if you liked, I also appreciate kudos, comments and bookmarks.


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